


If she wasn't already dead - I'd kill her/The passing of a legend.

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Loss, M/M, Season Twelve, Sorrow, The Colt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 18:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: One of the hardest goodbyes they’ve ever had to say.





	If she wasn't already dead - I'd kill her/The passing of a legend.

**Author's Note:**

> This is directly linked to the drabble about Ruby’s Demon Killing Knife always belonging to Sammy, from spn_bigpretzel's valentines challenge Sharp Edges. This turned out way sadder than I thought it would, made my own self bloody well cry. Thank you to jj1564 for the ever brilliant and patient beta ♥

Sam picks Dean off the ground and gladly shoulders his weight, snatching what little comfort he can from his brother’s erratically beating heart pulsing beneath his sweaty dusty palm, as they stumble towards the Impala.

Depositing him gently on the hood of the car, Sam leans forward and rests his forehead against Dean’s before turning unsteadily and scanning the ground for the ruined pieces of the Colt. Sam’s eyes land heavily on the gun - now nothing but intricately decorated bits of scrap metal - and swears he feels his own heart stutter and contract. It’s as if someone’s reached in behind his ribs and is squeezing the overworked organ, really fucking hard.

The Colt.

It’s gone.

Forever.

One jumped up Prince of Hell and a misguided Angel, and it’s just gone.

The Winchesters have _lost_ a whole hell of a lot, they’ve had a metric fucktonne more **taken** from them, but the sadness Sam feels seeping into his used and abused body is almost too much to bear.

Staring dejectedly at the weapon that helped Dean avenge their Mother’s murder, Sam finds himself wiping away stubbornly fast falling tears, swiping angrily at his cheeks as he bends to retrieve the Colt.

Logically Sam knows it’s just a damn gun - magical, intrinsically tied to their lives as Hunters - but _just_ a **gun** , yet he can’t seem to get a lid on the tears still streaming down his face.

It isn’t simply his and Dean’s history resting in two halves in Sam’s hands, it’s a piece of Hunter lore, it’s the literal embodiment of the ingenuity of a man who wanted to help rid the world of evil.

Sam looks down at the trashed weapon and thinks Samuel Colt will be spinning in his grave, as would Bobby, if he had a grave to spin in.

Turning back towards Dean, Sam sees his own sorrow mirrored on his brother’s face, and it’s all he can do not to weep and fling himself into Dean’s arms.

Clearing his throat, Sam steps forward and hands the pieces of the Colt to Dean, who strokes them and whispers hushed words of grief.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You deserved more.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean and Sam resolutely refuse to dispose of the useless pieces of metal still sitting atop their kitchen table. Instead, every morning, it sits between them as they eat their breakfast - a silent reminder that some things just can’t be fixed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It takes a bottle of Jack, each, and some badly dubbed porn, but Dean and Sam are finally drunk enough to broach the subject of the gun - _still_ in bits, **still** laying on the kitchen table - and it’s as Dean sways in Sam’s arms that they decide to give the Colt a proper send off. A burial worthy of any Hunter they’ve known.

Gathering supplies, Dean and Sam silently, if unsteadily, sweep through the Bunker, snatching salt, matches and gasoline from various hidey holes in their home.

Completely ripped and barely putting one foot in front of the other without face-planting the metal stairs leading out of the Bunker, Dean and Sam stumble into the cold night air, each now clutching a piece of the Colt to their chest.

Dean’s eyes swim as he spins on the spot, trying to find a decent place to lay a piece of their past to rest. “S-S-Schammy?”

Sam hiccoughs, belches, snorts and shoves a finger in Dean’s face. “You’re completely bollocksed.”

“And you’ve been spendin’ far too much time with that moron Crowley.”

“Guilty. Your fault.”

“S’not.”

“T’is, an’ shuddup. What’re we doing out here?”

“Gun.”

Sam’s drunken euphoria subsides and in its place is a hollow emptiness, which comes out as a slurred series of impressive curse words that make even Dean blush. 

“Fuckingcocksuckingbastardbitchofastinkingdemon!”

Dean smiles wonkilly at Sam’s angry tirade and hooks two fingers in his brother’s collar. “Come on you, let’s say goodbye, properly.”

Sam’s tugged along by Dean - who’s only just managing to stay upright - and runs face first into his brother's back as he suddenly stops dead.

“Oomph!”

“Here. We should do it here.”

Sam stares down at his feet, sways on the spot, and realises they’re stood up on the ridge outside the Bunker’s front door. “Perfect.”

Not caring that he’s about to get dirt and debris all over one of his only intact pairs of jeans, Dean curls himself onto the ground and motions for Sam to do the same.

Sitting together in the dark, listening to the sounds of the night carrying on around them, Sam and Dean begin to dig a hole, getting muck under their nails and covering their legs in disgusting damp plant roots.

Finally the hole is big enough for the gun to fit snugly inside, and Sam leans forward first, placing his half of the Colt in the ground. “Your turn.”

Dean finds himself unable to let go of his half, not wanting to say goodbye, not fully able to admit she’ll never be fired again, never save the day again. It’s like seeing all those beautiful machine’s in Bobby’s scrapyard; twisted hunks of metal that should have been treated with more respect. “Sammy - I can’t.”

Sam knew this was going to be hard, for both of them, but much like the Demon killing knife is his, the Colt was always Dean’s, always his brother’s go-to weapon of choice. It fit perfectly in his hands, never missed it’s mark, and with the exception of Lucifer, never once let them down.

Reaching out, cupping Dean’s hands with his own, Sam forces his brother to tip his piece into the ground, before gripping Dean’s fingers tight and pulling them into his lap. “Wanna say something?”

Dean stares at their joined hands and shakes his head sadly. “No.”

Sam rolls his eyes and regrets it, still fighting through the half litre of whiskey dulling his motor functions, and leans his cheek against Dean’s shoulder. “Liar.”

Sam pulls a pack of matches from his jacket pocket.

Dean drags a container of lighter fuel from the inside of his coat.

Each of them unscrew the cap on a salt canister and sprinkle it on top of the gun.

Sam - head still resting on Dean’s shoulder - allows the tears to fall for both of them, knowing Dean won’t let himself show the loss. “Thank you. For all the times you saved our lives, other people’s souls, thank you.”

Dean sprays lighter fuel into the hole, Sam hands him a match, and together they strike them before flicking them in on top of the Colt.

The flames burn bright and high, heat crackling across the brother’s skin as they sit and pay witness to the passing of a legend.

~~~~~~~~~~~

As the sun crests the horizon, Sam and Dean remain curled together, watching the dying embers of a fire that had no business burning that hot for that long, hot enough to reduce the gun within it to a pool of molten metal.

“Want to go in?”

“Just another minute, Sammy, just another minute.”

“Okay Dean, okay.”

 

Fin.


End file.
